101
by clair beaubien
Summary: It's Friday after "Mystery Spot" and Dean is realizing more happened than Sam is telling him. When Sam gets shot, Dean has to pull out more than the bullet.
1. Chapter 1

It was supposed to be a simple salt and burn. We have them every once in awhile. An old farmhouse, an old farmer, his permission to dig up Uncle Clary and burn the bones to stop the monthly flash fires so he could sell his land to a new housing development.

The old family cemetery was at the edge of a woods. The last burial was before the Titanic sank and Uncle Clary's was thirty years before that. Sam and I took turns digging and Farmer Clary the third kept us company with cider, fastnachts, and _lovely_ conversation. He even paid for our gas. Life was good.

Today was Friday. Day three post-weird-Tuesday. Ground Hog Day Tuesday. Sam had recovered, or so he said. He didn't sleep as much as I wanted him to though, or eat enough, and I thought he was looking at me way more than even this handsome face called for. I figured he still had some "earned it" points though, though I hoped it wouldn't take him the next one hundred days to get past his last one hundred days. So I kept a closer eye on him and didn't say anything when I'd wake up in the middle of the night and find him staring at me in the semi-darkness.

So, Sam was in the grave and I was standing next to the farmer when a sound in the woods got my attention.

"Is that gunfire?" I asked him.

"Prob'ly. Local boys out hunting. Or target practice. They don't come this way."

So we kept at it. Finally Uncle Clary was unearthed and we doused him with salt and accelerant. As I pulled out the matches, Farmer Clary pulled off his cap, bowed his head and started praying. Sam bowed his head too and glared at me when I didn't, giving me his best 'would you just do it?' stare.

Whatever.

Pretty soon Uncle Clary was ash and memory and we filled in the grave again. Farmer Clary went back to his house to have the missus pack us a lunch to go. I was just finishing the last few shovelfuls and Sam was drinking some cider when I heard a ping, a crack, a thud and a smack.

"Hunh." Sam said, looking down at himself. He sounded confused and resigned.

"What?"

"Well -." A crimson rose bloomed on his sweaty t-shirt. "I think I've been shot."

"What?" I dropped my shovel and rushed over to him. I pulled his t-shirt up out of the way.

"Well - _oww." _He complained.

Yep, there was a hole and there was blood.

"Are you okay? Is it a through and through?" I checked his back but there was no exit wound.

"No, it's not even very deep. I think it was a ricochet. It's just - bleeding."

"_Yeah _it's bleeding. C'mon, let's get you to the hospital."

"No Dean. C'mon." He said it like I was suggesting he go to the hospital for a sliver. "It's hardly anything. I can take care of it back at the motel."

"You can? Dude, when was the last time you took a bullet out of yourself?"

First he gave me a 'pfft' that sounded a lot like derision, then he gave me that look that I'd kept seeing all day Wednesday and half of Thursday. Like he was going to be sick, or cry, or both.

"Can we just go?" He asked then, in that small voice he gets.

"Yeah, sure. Let's go." I carried the shovels and waved him to the car. "Let me tie things up here. Here." I pulled the bandana out of my pocket and handed it to him. "Try not to bleed to death in my car."

"Yeah."

I watched him start towards the car then I hefted the shovels and took the path that led to the house. I could still see Sammy and the car and I wanted to let the folks know that we were leaving and they had idiots in their woods.

Mother Clary pushed two heavy paper bags into my hands before I could even say a word. She was old, gray, and hunched over, just like her husband. But her mood seemed a lot lighter now than it had when we met her early this morning and I couldn't add to her troubles or ours by mentioning that Sam got shot. She needed her life to be set now, we needed ours to stay under the radar.

"You boys take care now." Farmer Clary said, coming out of the house to stand next to his wife. They looked like matching salt and pepper shakers. "We'll have you over to the new place when we're all set up."

"That'll be great, thanks. Take care now and be sure to let us know if this doesn't stop things."

I left as quick as I could without being rude - well, _too_ rude anyway - and went to the car, carrying the shovels and bags and wondering what was up with Sammy.

"How're you doing?" I asked when I got into the car. Sam had both hand pressed over the bandana over the bullet. I pulled one hand away to check the bleeding. A little had come through the fabric but not enough to panic.

"Fine."

Right, he was pale and sweating and pushing back so hard he was practically in the back seat.

"I'll get us back to the motel as quick as I can."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks."

The way Sam answered me, I had the idea I could say I was going to wipe out the hard drive of his computer and he'd have given me the exact same answer.

We got to the motel. I got out fast and unlocked the door so Sammy could go in but instead he followed me around to the trunk where I was getting our stuff.

"Sam - go inside and lay down. I hate to remind you, but you were _shot._"

"I'll go in with you."

"Sammy -." I was going to force him to go inside but he gave me that look, that '_I'm hurt and tired and you'll cave if I give you this look'_ look. I swear if I ever find out he's doing that look on purpose - who am I kidding? Even if it is on purpose, I'll still cave. I grabbed what I needed and shut the trunk. "Okay, c'mon, let's get inside."

He followed close behind me, into the room, even when we were in the room, like he didn't know or remember he was supposed to lay down and not collapse on the floor.

"Sam - bed - now."

"What? Yeah." He set himself onto the bed nearest the door and still watched me, sitting up, not lying down and when I walked toward him -

"OK Sammy, let's have a look."

- he backed away from me, using one hand to hold the bandana in place and the other hand to back himself all the way to the headboard.

"C'mon Sam. We both know this is going to hurt, but the sooner we get it taken care of, the sooner it stops hurting."

"You died."

Great - he was having Tuesday flashbacks and PTSD.

"And I came back Sammy. Now we need to take care of you."

"No." He shook his head and pushed with his feet like he was trying to get through the headboard and into the wall. He was agitated and that was making the blood run out the bandana and through his fingers.

"Sam, c'mon. You're getting blood on the sheets, the maid'll think we were doing something funny in here." Like we ever let the maid in. I was getting desperate though.

"You died." He said again. "You died and I was alone."

"But I came back Sam. I came back and you've been shot and we need to take care of it." I waited but he only looked down at his hand, his shaking, bloody hand. When he did look up at me, it was only to say it again.

"You died." Now he was crying. "_You died."_

"I know. I died a hundred times -."

"_A hundred and one_." Sam corrected me. To quote a certain Christmas wreath salesman, 'aren't you the fussy one?'

"OK, I died a hundred and one times, but I came back a hundred and two times. Sam, I came back."

"_I was alone."_

I swore to myself that if I came across that trickster again, I was gonna put _two_ stakes in his heart. What the hell did he do to my brother?

I sat on the bed, close to Sam. I put my hand on his and tried to move it out of the way of the wound.

"All right Sammy, let me see it. C'mon and let me see it. I can have this done before you know it Sammy, let me take care of you."

He cried harder then and even though he was pressing both hands to his bloody side, I knew there was more than physical wounds to be taken care of.

"All right, all right Sammy. One thing at a time, hunh?"

It's hard to bundle a Sasquatch into a little-brother-sized package, but I managed. I pulled Sam close until his forehead was against my shoulder and I put my arms around him and held him. I could tell from years of experience that he was crying from exhaustion and frustration. He needed to calm down and he needed to sleep.

"What happened Sammy? Hunh? Tell me what happened."

"You - you - _died_. I was alone."

"I died a lot Sam." Maybe it was - what do they call that? Cumulative trauma? "Every time I died, you woke up. When were you alone?"

He didn't answer me and I didn't push him. I held him and his head on my shoulder was heavy and all I could think at that moment was the last time I'd held Sammy like this, in Cold Oak, with his head on my shoulder and he died in my arms. Only he wasn't the one crying that time.

"Shh...shhh... C'mon Sammy, you need to calm down. Shh...shh."

We hung out there for a while, ten minutes maybe. Sammy stopped crying and just rested against me, breathing hard and working his fingers against his wound. He was calming down, that was good. Maybe he'd let me stitch him up before he bled to death.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I'm getting blood on you."

"Let's see..." I leaned back a little to look between us. "Not much. We're good." Then I pulled him close again.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"If you died one hundred and one times, you can only come back one hundred and one times. Not one hundred and two."

That's my brother, he's bleeding to death and still picky about details.

"Let me take care of you and you can do math any way you want."

"Okay."

He said it, but it didn't register with me that he was agreeing.

"Dean? I said 'okay'."

"What? Really? Okay. Great. Okay."

My mind was saying 'lay him down, cut open his shirt, sterilize the forceps, flush the wound, pull out the bullet, flush the wound again, stitch him up, buy him an ice cream', but my arms were saying, 'we're still okay right here'.

"Dean?"

"I came back Sam. I came back, I'm here now, and you're not alone."

"But -." He started to say it, he wanted to say it, he could say it as much as he wanted.

"Yeah, I died, but I'm here _now._ And let me tell you Sammy -." I pulled back so I could see his face. "If anybody is going to come back one more time than they died, it's gonna be me. All right?"

"All right."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay?"

"_Dean."_

So I finally let go, "All right, lay back, let's get this taken care of."

Once I had him wrestled into submission, taking care of Sam was a breeze. Fifteen minutes tops and he was stitched up and walking a shaky path to the bathroom and a shower while I bagged up the trash so no unsuspecting cleaning lady would discover a spent bullet and a bloody t-shirt after we were gone.

When that was done, I switched on the TV for a little noise and sorted through Mother Clary's bags of take-out. It was pretty obvious pretty fast that she had no clue about packing food for the road: the loaf of bread, box of crackers, jar of peanut butter and bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies were about the only things that didn't need to be refrigerated. The rest included a block of cheese, a couple packages of deli meat, a Tupperware thing of hard boiled eggs, a pound of butter, a glass pint or quart or whatever of milk, a jar of mayonnaise, a jar of pickles, a jar of olives, a head of lettuce, four tomatoes, and a tub of tiny frozen eclairs. All fresh, all tasty, but portable? Not really.

I put some food together for us, not too much because I wasn't sure what Sam could handle. Peanut butter sandwiches, glasses of milk, some of the eclairs. When Sam came out again, he headed for the bed but I steered him to the table.

"Lunch."

"Not hungry."

"Yes you are, you just don't know it." He didn't sit down. "Sammy, c'mon, you'll sleep better if you eat something."

He gave in with an aggravated sigh and sat where I pointed him. The place setting with the heavy duty painkillers. He took those first thing.

"You put the bandage over the stitches?"

"Yeah."

"Everything else still in working order?"

"Yeah."

He surveyed the feast I had spread before him. Sam seems to like to eat about as much as I like to let somebody else drive my car; it's just something he has to do occasionally, like laundry or stopping to get gas.

"I just want to go to sleep."

"And you can as soon as you eat."

He gave me another pretty dramatic sigh. But he ate. One peanut butter sandwich. One glass of milk. No eclairs. He got up from the table and headed for the first bed, but I told him,

"Take the other bed, it's clean."

He didn't say anything. He practically fell into the bed and rolled himself under the covers.

But he didn't fall asleep. I could tell. Something was going on, something more than one hundred - _one hundred and one_ - days and deaths. I died. He was alone.

"Sam?" I walked to the near side of the bed, where Sam was facing away, so he didn't have to look at me. I sat on the edge. "When were you alone?"

"When you died."

"When were you alone long enough to dig a bullet out of yourself?"

That froze him. He didn't even breathe. Yahtzee.

"Sam?"

"On Wednesday."

That didn't make sense.

"I remember Wednesday Sam. I was there. When were you alone on Wednesday?"

"The first Wednesday."

The _first_ Wednesday? Crap.

"Uh - _Sam?_" I tried to keep my voice casual. "_What_ 'first' Wednesday? How many Wednesdays did you have?"

That damn Trickster was up to three stakes now. And one of 'em wasn't going in his _heart_.

"Twenty four."

Well, twenty four was bad, but not _this_ bad, was it?

"Why didn't you tell me? Sam?"

"Because I couldn't stand it."

"Stand what?"

"You died. I was alone."

And we were back to it. I ran a hand down my face. Time for twenty questions.

"So - the Trickster put you through another twenty four days. After the first hundred."

Sam didn't say anything.

"He let you switch over to Wednesday but I kept dying and you kept waking up."

And Sam didn't say anything.

"Sam? Twenty four Wednesdays?"

"_And Thursdays and Fridays and Saturdays and -._"

"Whoa - whoa - back up Sammy. What're you talking about - he gave you twenty four weekends?"

"_NO. He gave me twenty four weeks."_ Sam sat up, he was officially freaked. "_Six months_. You died Wednesday morning and you were dead for _six months_ and I _was alone."_

All I could do was stare at him. First one hundred days and now - six months? _Six months?_

"Sammy - what are you talking about? What six months?"

He didn't answer me. Tears rolled down his face and he swiped at them. He looked away from me. _Of course,_ I realized, _the six months he hasn't been able to tell me about._

"OK Sam - let me - let me just - get this straight. First the Trickster made you live through one hundred - _and one_ - days of me dying, and then he made you live through one death and six months?"

"Uh - yeah. Yeah. Pretty much."

"So - I was dead."

Sam nodded. He swiped at more tears.

"For six months."

"He said - the Trickster said he wanted me to see what living without you would be like."

_Four_ stakes. That damn Trickster was up to _four_ stakes and they were _all _going into his heart and _not _through his chest.

"Sammy - I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault." He said it so fast and so earnestly, he really thought it wasn't my fault. But it was. I knew it was and if Sammy thought about it, he'd see it was my fault too.

"Sam -."

"No Dean. _No. _It wasn't your fault. It wasn't."

He was so serious, so determined that it wasn't my fault, that as much as I wanted to, I couldn't contradict him.

"All right Sam. Are you okay? What happened those six months?"

"You died. I was alone."

"What else? You got shot? You took care of it? Sam? What else happened?"

I could see it, he was starting to cave in on himself. The days - hell, _months_ - without sleep, without eating, were finally catching up with him. I wasn't going to get much more out of him. Not right now.

"All right Sam. Here's what we're gonna do, okay? You're gonna lie down and get some sleep."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna sit right here next to you. Okay? I'll be here when you wake up. Okay?"

All those six months, those technically nine months, they were all on his face, in his eyes, his slumped shoulders and shaking hands. He didn't have to ask and I didn't have to say. But I said it anyway.

"Sammy, I promise. I'll be here."

"All right."

He rolled back under the blankets and I sat next to him on the bed, until he fell asleep.

The End


	2. Friday Night

I woke up face down in bed. T-Rex's 'Get It On' was playing at the edge of my hearing so Dean was somewhere around. I guess I'd slept a good long while because the sun was getting ready to go down and I'd closed my eyes at lunch time. I pushed myself up off the mattress awkwardly. My side ached and my arm was numb from sleeping on it. If I have to wake up, why can't it be worthwhile?

When I could move my arm without it feeling like electrified mud, I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. The door to the motel room was wide open, with the car parked right outside. The hood was open and Dean was leaning over the engine, gapping the spark plugs from the looks of it. His back was to me and I didn't bother him. But I stared at him a minute.

Six months. He'd been gone six months and now he was back like nothing had happened. Because until a few hours ago, he didn't know anything had happened. Because to him, nothing _had_ happened.

I wanted to go out and sit on the curb next to Dean and watch him work on the car. Actually, what I really wanted was to glue myself to Dean's side. I wanted to grab a handful of his shirt and hang on for dear life like I did when I was little and something scared me. And I wanted to see his face if I did that. It would almost be worth it just to see if his expression matched what I thought it would be if I suddenly latched onto him like I was five years old again.

But - I probably scared Dean enough already today. I start grabbing hold of him like he's a security blanket and he's liable to -

No - if I was in a bad enough state to need to hold onto Dean, he'd stop what he was doing and reassure me and stay with me as long as I needed. He'd already done it today, sitting on the bed next to me until I fell asleep, and - knowing Dean - probably for a while _after _that too.

So I used the bathroom and then checked for something cold to drink to take some more painkillers. Except for the beer and Pepsi, I expected to find an otherwise empty microfridge. Instead I found it crammed full of food. I thought when Mrs. Clary packed us a 'lunch', it was just the peanut butter and milk Dean gave me before. What I found was enough food for a month.

A look into the wastebasket showed me that Dean hadn't eaten much, if anything, since lunch so I made sandwiches with the sliced turkey and veggies, and set the food out on the table. Then I took a couple bottles of Pepsi outside.

"Hey." Dean said, and he took the bottle I offered him. "Thanks. How's your side?"

"Hurts." The open stairway to the second floor was near the car and I sat down, a few steps up.

"You take some more painkillers?"

"Yeah."

"Any more blood?"

"No."

"Stitches okay?"

"Yeah."

He nodded and drank some Pepsi then reached into the car to shut off the music.

"So..."

He took a seat next to me on the steps.

"...six months?"

There are times when Dean yells at me like he wants to take my head off, and there are times when he's so freaking gentle it's like he thinks I'm brittle, and this was one of those times. He wasn't asking; he was offering. I could answer him or not, he wasn't pushing. And if I did answer him, I could say anything and he wouldn't get upset. I could be as upset as I needed to be and Dean would make it okay again.

"Yeah. Six months."

Dean looked at me, but I couldn't look at him.

"And you got shot."

"Yeah."

"Bad?"

"No, just a ricochet, like today."

"Musta been hard taking care of it yourself."

It wasn't what he meant, but I had to answer,

"It was harder just getting up every morning."

"_Sammy _-."

"It didn't take me very long to shut down. To just shut everything down. I just went on automatic. I mean I still hunted, but everything focused on finding the Trickster and getting you back."

"How'd you finally find him?"

"I didn't." I was surprised how much it hurt to admit that. "He finally led me to him. Back at the Mystery Spot."

"Hunh. Where it all started."

"Either he got tired of jerking me around or he got tired of me chasing him. I never woulda found him if he didn't _let _me."

"Either way, you made him cave."

That's my brother - I show him my failure and he sees a victory.

"So did he - how'd you get him to give me up?"

"I begged." That didn't hurt; there isn't anything I wouldn't have done to get Dean back. Dean must've thought it hurt me though because he put his hand on my back. "I promised him we wouldn't go after him. Even then he didn't give in right away. But then he -." I snapped my fingers, "- and I woke up Wednesday morning. The Wednesday morning you remember."

Dean rubbed my back in that way he has when I'm upset or he thinks I am and he wants to comfort me. Like I said, sometimes he wants to take my head off, sometimes he's gentle. And sometimes the gentleness is harder to deal with.

"And I thought you hugged me because I'm so awesome."

I laughed, because that was Dean's intent, and because it was funny.

"I just tripped and you caught me."

And Dean laughed because that was my intent, and because it was funny.

"What else happened those six months?"

I shrugged.

"I survived." Other than getting Dean back, that's what mattered. "I organized the trunk."

"_Dude _- you touched the car?"

"I wasn't sleeping much, I needed something to pass the time."

Dean affected a very pained expression.

"But - _the car?_"

"Remember how Dad had the weapon box on his truck? With the upholstered foam, molded to fit each weapon? That's what I did."

"That trunk is perfectly organized."

"Sure it is." I agreed, sort of, and took a swig of Pepsi. "I made dinner."

"Really? You learned to cook during those six months?"

For a second I didn't know what he was talking about.

"What? No, I mean -." I gestured back into the motel room. "I made dinner. Sandwiches. Pickles. The chocolate chip cookies you didn't tell me about before."

"Hmm - I thought I hid those."

"I remember all your hiding places."

_Remember._ That was an odd word to use, and the wince Dean gave said he realized it was an odd word too. He rubbed my back again.

I thought about all the times I told myself, _'If I only had one more day with Dad, one more hour...'_ and here I got months back with Dean. I had the urge again to grab hold of his shirt and not let go. Maybe if I held on hard enough and long enough, I'd get dragged down to hell with him and we wouldn't ever be apart again.

"So, how'd it happen?"

"How'd _what_ happen?" I asked and wondered - finding the cookies? C'mon - I find a paper bag in the freezer and I know it's something worth looking at.

"The last time - how'd I die?"

I started to tell him. I opened my mouth to tell him. I just had to say a few words _'you were shot_'. It wasn't like that hadn't been playing on a continuous loop in my head for six months.

But the _whole_ memory was there, the sound of the gunshot, the smell of the blood, holding Dean and feeling the heat leave his body, and every single minute of those six months knowing his death was permanent if I couldn't find the Trickster - they were _all _burned into my brain.

So I guess I _didn't_ answer Dean's question and I didn't even realize until he put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze. He wasn't looking at me, he was looking away, thinking about something.

"It was in the parking lot, wasn't it? What's his name. From the diner. You wouldn't let me go down to the car the other day until he'd gone past. What'd he do? Shoot me?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah. After all the other ways I died you told me about, figures for the grace shot, the Trickster'd make it something run of the mill."

"_Ha._ As if _any _way you died you could be run of the mill."

My intent was to make Dean smile, but he grinned like he was pleased and proud and a little embarrassed all at the same time.

"Damn right." He agreed. "So - you all right?"

"No. No I'm not."

Dean turned more to face me. His face was drawn in concern and worry.

"Your side? Does it hurt? It's not getting infected?"

"No. No, it's not that. I just -." I shook my head and looked away. I did _not _want a repeat of earlier this afternoon, especially out here in the open.

"Sam?"

Oh God - the sound of his voice, how warm and real and familiar his hand was on my back, how close he was sitting to me, it was everything and more that I'd been missing those six months. It was -

"_Sammy_?"

- it was _Dean_, sitting next to me. Food and first aid and a way as much as a reason to sleep and right now I felt like I could sleep - well, for six months.

"I'm just still really tired."

"Let me pack up the tools and we'll go inside. Have that dinner you're so proud of. Then you can get some more sleep." He gave me his Pepsi to hold and went to close up his tool box and put it back in the trunk.

That was Dean too - he knew I'd want to wait with him and not go back into the room until he was going in. If he kept on being this nice to me, I _was_ going to have another meltdown.

"Ready?" Dean asked. He held his hand out for his soda pop and I gave it back to him.

"I'm sorry."

He'd been about to take a drink but he stopped.

"For what? D'you drink out of my bottle?"

"I'm sorry I could never save you."

"Of course you saved me." Dean said. He took his swig of Pepsi.

"_When_?"

"Wednesday. _This_ Wednesday, when you didn't let me go to the car until what's-his-name the psycho went past."

"That's not saving you."

"He woulda shot me, right?"

I shrugged and nodded and shrugged.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

Dean smiled and drank more Pepsi and gave me his '_I'm so right you don't even have to tell me...'_ look.

"C'mon Sammy. Let's go eat."

"Yeah."

I followed him into the room and we ate dinner and when I started to clean off the table, Dean stopped me.

"_Hey _- bed. I'll clean up."

"Okay."

I sat on the bed but didn't lie down. I was exhausted but now that Dean knew about the six months, I was even less inclined to let him out of my sight, even to sleep.

"Y'okay?" Dean asked as he crumpled up the napkins and paper plates.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." I knew I should put myself under the blankets and my head on the pillows and close my eyes and go back to sleep. The sound of Dean moving around the room would be enough to settle me and reassure me and in the morning we'd be one day further away from Ground Hog Day.

Dean looked at me again but didn't say anything. He threw out the trash and came over to me.

"All right. Time for bed."

I actually put my hand up, ready and willing to grab a twist of his shirt to hold onto for comfort. But I stopped myself in time and put my hand down again. Dean didn't need to know how much I needed him right now.

"C'mon Sammy, you're so tired you don't know how tired you are."

"Yeah." So I laid down and pulled the blankets up and Dean straightened them out and as I started to fall asleep I felt him sit down on the mattress next to me and wrap his hand around mine.

The End.


End file.
